


The Spirit of Revolution

by Buffintruda, starlightwalking



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Era, French Revolution of 1848, Gavroche Lives, Gen, Ghosts, Les Amis are Ghosts, Post-Barricade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7118344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buffintruda/pseuds/Buffintruda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gavroche did not expect to wake up after the disaster at the barricades, nor did he expect to be greeted by nine ghosts upon returning to consciousness, but life and death have a way of surprising us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirit of Revolution

**Author's Note:**

> We are not actually French. We apologize for any inaccuracies this causes.  
> We did research on the revolution of 1848 (and on things like factory conditions), but it was not incredibly extensive. We hope we were accurate, and we apologize if we made a mistake. We also made up a few details here and there, like the weather and etc.  
> Thank you for reading!

_Phantom faces at the window_  
_Phantom shadows on the floor_  
_Empty chairs at empty tables  
_ _Where my friends will meet no more._

—Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

* * *

"Gavroche!" It was someone's voice, not one he recognized. He tried to open his eyes but lost focus before he could. "Stay alive," the person urged as his consciousness faded.

Gavroche slipped out of the sleepy haze and realized he was in a room full of many people talking.

"He's dying!" one of them hissed. Gavroche squinted, trying to make out the form of the speaker, but his eyes wouldn't focus. He ached all over, and he felt a burning pain in his right side, but he didn't quite feel like he was dying.

"Calm down, Joly," another person said in slight exasperation. "He's not dying; he's doing much better than before. I think he's recovering."

"Is he awake?" a different voice asked, but Gavroche lost concentration and didn't hear the answer.

Later, he blinked open his eyes and saw himself in a bed, which made no sense. He lived in an elephant and had never touched sheets as white as these. He shut them again.

"How is he doing, Papa?" a high voice asked. The crowd of adult voices that seemed to always be there quieted when she spoke.

"Better," a deeper, older voice responded. "The doctor said he's improving and will recover." Everyone broke out in relieved chatter.

"What did I tell you, Joly?" the voice from before demanded. "He's fine!" But even this speaker sounded relieved.

"I knew he would make it," Joly insisted. The assembly of people only broke into laughter, each person bringing their own unique tone to the sound.

Gavroche struggled to hear more of their conversation, but he soon drifted back off to sleep.

When he finally fully woke up, it was some time in the middle of the day. He didn't recognize his surroundings, which were far nicer than usual. He would have jumped out of his bed and hid until he could figure out what was going on if not for two things: his body hurt too much and was too weak to move, and the room was full of people.

"Good—good morning, gentlemen," he stammered, for it seemed to him that all of the group were men. There were nine of them: men of various size and stature, most of of them familiar.

"Why, this is an incredible sight!" he exclaimed.

One of the men chuckled. "Incredible indeed," he agreed.

Gavroche squinted at him, shocked to see that he was the great warrior from the barricade who had earned his respect on the way there by ripping down the poster. In fact, all of them had been at the barricade.

"This is not right," he said. "You died! I know you did, for I saw your dead body!" He frowned. "Joly, whichever you are, are you sure I am not dead? For I see no reason to see you all standing here if I am not dead myself."

"I am Joly," one of them said, "And it is not _you_ who is dead."

Before he could ask any more questions, the door opened. In walked a beautiful young woman with soft brown hair, her eyes wide.

"You are awake!" she said. Gavroche recognized her voice from earlier in his sleep.

"Who are you, mam'selle?" he asked politely, but not without confusion and distrust.

"I'm called Cosette. You were brought back from the barricades."

"Oh!" He recognized the name. "It was you who I was delivering Marius's letter to. I trust that the old man gave it to you?"

"Ah...letter?" she asked, furrowing her brows elegantly. "I am afraid I don't know what you mean."

"It seems he was unfaithful to his promise," Gavroche lamented. "You ought to ask him about it, if indeed I was not duped and he did not know you at all!"

Cosette smiled at him, though she still seemed confused. "Of course I will," she said hesitantly. "But tell me, child: how do you feel?"

"I feel an ache all over, and my side stings like I've been bitten, but I can think now, which I could not do before," he told her.

"That makes sense, for you have been bitten, in a manner of speaking," Cosette said, "though by a bullet and not a beast."

Gavroche nodded. He remembered. The barricade had been a wildly exciting adventure, but it had not ended in the revolutionary victory he had hoped. He last remembered being shot, falling back, and thinking he must be dead or at the very least dying. But here he was, alive, despite the strangeness of it all.

"Yes. My song was interrupted." Gavroche frowned.

"We thought you had been killed then," one of the men said. If Gavroche remembered correctly, he was called Courfeyrac.

"Well, I wasn't killed," he replied, looking up at him.

"No, you weren't," Cosette agreed. She glanced at where Gavroche stared, then looked at him in puzzlement. "What are you staring at?"

"What do you mean?" Gavroche asked.

"She can't see us," Bahorel said.

"We're dead, remember?" Joly added.

"Oh." Gavroche frowned. "Nothing," he told Cosette.

"...Alright. Since you're alive and awake, I should bring you some food and water."

As soon as she left, Gavroche folded his arms and looked suspiciously at the people who stood around him.

"Are you ghosts?" he demanded.

"We're not really sure," one of them told him.

"Yes, we're ghosts," another confirmed.

Gavroche shook his head. "This is too confusing."

"How do you think we feel?" another one demanded of him.

"Quiet," snapped a blond man. Gavroche recognized him as Enjolras, the leader of the barricade. "Instead of arguing and causing more confusion, we must work together and discuss what we know."

Slowly, the story unfolded. After they had all introduced themselves, the ghosts described what had happened to them. They had all died on the barricades at different times, but they woke up again simultaneously at his bedside. They recognized him and stayed to watch over him, though some thought they didn't really have a choice in the matter. It had taken a few days for Gavroche to wake up, and in that time, a doctor had cared for him with the assistance of an old man, who had been at the barricades, and Cosette. None of them knew how he survived but figured that those two had something to do with it.

Their conversation was interrupted when Cosette returned with some food and water. "I hope soup is to your taste," she said.

If Gavroche was honest, it had been so long since he had eaten that he would have devoured anything, but instead, with exaggerated haughtiness, he said, "I shall only accept the finest of soups!"

Cosette laughed, amused by his jest. "This soup could be served to the king."

"Ah, but I am finer than a king; I am a gamin."

Cosette smiled. "This soup is fit for those, too."

* * *

Over the course of the next two months, Gavroche became acquainted with the house and its inhabitants. He gradually recovered from his injuries under the care of Cosette and occasional check-ups from the doctor who had tended to him while he slept.

During this time, he learned many things about the people he interacted with. Cosette was the daughter of the old man, Fauchelevent. She was in love with Marius, as he had presumed when he delivered the letter. He too had survived the barricades, though Gavroche didn't see him much because he had also been injured.

"At least he made it out alive," a ghost named Courfeyrac had said when they had first learned this news.

"Of course he would, that booby," muttered the ghost called Grantaire.

The ghosts were a mixed bunch. Enjolras, the leader, was more subdued than he had seemed at the barricades. He would talk with one of the others when he wished, but he did not often address the group or Gavroche. When he did, it was worth listening to.

Joly, the anxious one, turned out to be a cheerful fellow once it was certain Gavroche was going to live. He, along with his friend Bossuet, were remarkably nonplussed by their death and ghosthood, frequently making jokes and treating the whole matter with a careless cheer.

The ghost who had calmed Joly down when Gavroche had first become aware of their presence, Combeferre, was the most logical of them all. He had numerous theories about how they had all become ghosts. He spoke about other things too, wondering about what was going on in the outside world and engaging Courfeyrac in political debates.

Courfeyrac talked constantly. It was at Courfeyrac's insistence (or rather, constant demanding) that Gavroche first spoke with Marius. Bahorel, the man Gavroche remembered meeting on the way to the barricades, talked a lot too. Gavroche admired both greatly, and their conversation kept him entertained during the long period of time that he was bedridden. Combined with the chatter of everybody else, it did get annoying, though they did try to quiet down so he could rest. These two seemed the most unsettled by their circumstances.

In contrast, Jehan Prouvaire had taken it completely in his stride. He was the most excited about their odd afterlife, and he frequently discussed the cause of it with Combeferre, though he was less scientifically rational.

Unlike the rest, who had been revolutionary students, Feuilly had been a workingman. He often pestered Gavroche for news of the outside world, though he was always kind and polite in doing so. Gavroche could only give him so many details, cooped up in the house as he was, though he did ask Cosette and Fauchelevent many of the ghosts' questions. He was impatient and antsy, and wished to leave back to the streets as soon as he recovered. Feuilly, too, would be relieved when news could be gathered firsthand. It seemed the ghosts could not leave Gavroche's side, though they could move about in whatever room he was in.

Grantaire, though part of the same revolutionary group as all the others, seemed apart from them. He was fairly quiet, keeping to the edges and never participating much. From the other's reactions, Gavroche could tell this was not his normal behavior. Joly and Bossuet often tried to engage him in conversation, and they seemed concerned when he did not respond with enthusiasm.

When Gavroche finally recovered, he announced his departure to Cosette, Marius, and Fauchelevent.

"I am leaving," he proclaimed after a meal one day. "Thank you for healing me and housing me, but it is high time I returned to my lodgings."

"Your...lodgings?" Cosette asked hesitantly. He had not been especially descriptive when telling her and Marius his story of how he had come to the barricades and who he was. They did not know much about him other than his name.

"Yes, my lodgings." From Cosette's expression, this was not a sufficient answer, so Gavroche felt compelled to elaborate. "In the elephant." If anything, this made her more confused.

"You live in an elephant?" Courfeyrac asked him. Gavroche, aware that he couldn't answer in front of Cosette and the others, said nothing, though he did shoot an irritated glance Courfeyrac's way.

"Will you be safe there?" Fauchelevent asked in concern.

"Of course, I lived there for years," he said confidently.

"You didn't mention this," Bahorel said, crossing his hairy arms. Gavroche bit back a retort.

"Do you have a family?" Marius asked.

Gavroche sighed. They were asking far too many questions. "I have company, if that is what you mean." By this, he meant the ghosts, though there was no way the people who sat beside him at the table would know that.

Grantaire leaned his ghostly body against Cosette's chair. He paid her no mind, but smirked as he told Gavroche, "We aren't your family or your chaperones, little boy."

 _It's a good thing I called you company, then,_ he thought crossly, though he kept his expression cheery for the benefit of his living companions. _I can take care of myself._

The living looked at each other. It was clear from their expressions that they were wondering if they could keep Gavroche there if he wished to leave.

"Come visit us," Fauchelevent said at last.

"At least for the wedding," Marius added.

And so Gavroche left, with some extra clothes, food, and money they had given him. He wandered with a little less nimbleness than usual, as his body had not fully recovered, until he figured out where he was.

As soon as his sense of direction was restored, he walked to his elephant. The ghosts floated alongside him, each glad to be out of the house.

"Oh, sweet sun!" Jehan exclaimed. "Oh, blue sky!"

"It's not like I haven't been outside," Gavroche pointed out.

"Yes, but now we are _free_ ," Jehan insisted. He smiled wide, spinning around in the air. The ghosts floated just a few inches above the ground, which at first had been disconcerting to Gavroche. By now he was used to it, though the whole situation was still confusing and unnerving at times.

Many of the other ghosts also expressed some amount of excitement of being out, but none so enthusiastic as Jehan. It was not a short walk from Gillenormand's house to the Place de la Bastille, but it was a nice autumn day and after being cooped up for so long, none of them complained.

"You said you lived in an elephant?" Feuilly asked, looking at the large monument once they arrived.

Gavroche nodded, staring up at the gradually crumbling elephant with fondness. "This one right here," he said.

"That's your home?" Grantaire asked snidely. "I'm not impressed."

"Grantaire," Bossuet said reproachfully. "There's no need to be rude."

"I don't need to be impressive, just to cover my head in the rain," Gavroche snapped back. He raced off toward the elephant without further comment, the ghosts floating after him.

He climbed up into the belly of the beast. The ghosts did not bother with such things, simply watching him as they floated up alongside him.

"I wonder if this connection we have to you is somehow magnetic," Joly mused. "It would explain how we cannot leave your side. We do not even have to exert our will upon these ghostly forms in order to fly upward alongside you."

"I'm glad you're enjoying the ride," Gavroche muttered. Though in reality the ghosts weighed nothing, he still somehow felt the strain of dragging them all up after him.

"Joly, our bodies are no longer limited by the physical constraints of life," Jehan said earnestly. "Why should magnetism affect spirits?" He spun around in a circle, throwing his arms up in the air. "I could never do this in life, but in death I am fluid like the air."

"Air is a gas, not a fluid," Courfeyrac corrected.

"Actually," Combeferre started, "Gases and liquids are both fluids because they exhibit similar properties in that they—"

"Who cares?" Grantaire snapped. "We're dead, that's all we know. There's no way to _test_ your theory, Joly. Even unfounded mysticism is more likely to be correct."

Gavroche arrived at the top of the ladder and crawled inside just as Enjolras delivered the following comment: "Just because that theory cannot be tested does not mean it should not be talked about! Ideas, even if they are unworkable, should be encouraged so they can lead to better ones that may be proven correct."

"Please, no fighting in my abode, gentlemen," Gavroche interrupted. He stood up and spread his arms. "Welcome to my home."

"This is amazing," Jehan said, impressed. "You actually live inside an elephant!"

Gavroche lit one of the cellar rats, a resin-dipped string, to make some light. "This is my lamp," he said. He gestured to the other end where a caged alcove sheltered a mattress and blanket. "Over there is my bedroom chamber."

"What is the wire for?" Bahorel asked.

"To keep out the rats," Gavroche answered.

The ghosts looked rather worried at that. Gavroche only snorted. "The rats will not even see you," he pointed out. "You are all ghosts. Besides, if I can deal with them, so you can you. Anyway," Gavroche said to Enjolras and Grantaire, changing the subject, "What's going on with you two? Why are you incapable of getting along? The rest of you seem to be able to."

"How about we go find some of those rats?" Combeferre suggested, giving the ghosts that were not Enjolras and Grantaire significant looks. They all floated off, chatting amongst themselves.

Enjolras and Grantaire scowled at each other. Grantaire floated a few inches further away from him, his arms folded and his eyes purposefully staring anywhere but him.

"I don't..." Enjolras began. He trailed off, staring at Grantaire with a look of utter confusion in his eyes.

Gavroche flopped down on the floor, looking up at the two ghostly men with one raised eyebrow. "Is this about whatever happened before your deaths?"

Grantaire flinched. Gavroche looked between both of them, feeling a mild concern for their wellbeing. He and all the ghosts had discussed the fall of the barricade and their deaths before, of course. Their defeat had been tragic and horrible, of course, and while Gavroche was unhappy about their outcome, he had survived. There was no use dwelling on it—he had to keep moving forward if he wished to live any longer.

The ghosts, being already dead, felt differently. Still, seeing as they were somehow still bound to this earth and to Gavroche, they were concerned with his future as well as the future of the rest of France. As ghosts, their only chance in revolution was Gavroche. They were all very aware of that, and so was Gavroche himself, though the topic had been discussed only theoretically and Gavroche had been quick to shoot them down. After his close call, he was not eager to almost die again.

But while all the other ghosts had spoken freely of their deaths, Enjolras and Grantaire had remained silent. Gavroche had assumed this meant something significant happened, and since they acted so strangely together, he concluded that it had affected both of them, meaning they had died together, but there was no confirmation of this from either of them.

"Nothing happened," Grantaire mumbled. He turned even further away from Enjolras, who continued to stare at him.

"That's not true!" Enjolras insisted.

"Well, obviously something _did_ happen," Gavroche pointed out.

"We got shot," Grantaire supplied.

"I knew that already," Gavroche said crossly. "What _else_ happened?"

"We died together," Enjolras said, speaking more to Grantaire than Gavroche. "I never expected you to do that for me—or for our cause. You could have done nothing and stayed alive."

"And leave you there all by yourself?" Grantaire snapped. He turned back around to face Enjolras and Gavroche.

"Why have you been avoiding me and this subject?"

"What is there to talk about? I tricked you into thinking that I was someone worthwhile at the last possible moment. I thought that I wouldn't have to deal with this kind of thing in death, but I was wrong." Grantaire scowled.

"You didn't trick me," Enjolras insisted, "you only made me look beyond my assumptions. Do you think I've forgotten or discarded every interaction before that moment? You aren't a different person than the one who I have known for years."

"I didn't think that," Grantaire said, but his voice was less angry and defensive than before. "I didn't want you to get your expectations up. And then disappoint you again."

"So your solution is to avoid me?"

Grantaire looked ashamed. "I didn't know what else to do..."

"You could have talked to me."

"It's more complicated than that. You didn't really try to talk to me either."

"I know. I'm sorry. We both need to do better. We'll have a lot of time with little to distract us."

"I'll try," Grantaire said.

Gavroche sat back, watching them talk. Now that they were speaking to each other, he felt that his work there was done.

* * *

Time passed as Gavroche adjusted to what was his old life with the newly added company of a crowd of ghosts. They talked a lot, sometimes giving helpful advice, sometimes trying to discourage him from some of his more illegal and destructive habits, like smashing lamps and windows. Other times they were just irritating. And they were always _there_ in the background of his life, loudly proclaiming their opinions whether he wanted to know them or not.

To give himself some company other than the ghosts, Gavroche took to visiting Cosette and Marius. On one such visit, in the middle of winter, they invited him to their wedding. Gavroche wasn't that fond of weddings and likely would not have gone, but Courfeyrac insisted that Gavroche go as he wanted to see it.

The ceremony was boring, and Gavroche amused himself the entire time by observing the fancy outfits of the other guests. He itched to steal from them, but with the ghosts keeping a watchful eye on him, he dared not try. Of the ghosts, most of them wasted away their time in conversation. Courfeyrac, however, paid rapt attention and even burst into ghostly tears a few times.

"My Marius," he proclaimed, wiping his cheek, "all grown up and married!"

"What are you, his father?" Bossuet teased.

"He was already grown when you met him," Joly pointed out.

Courfeyrac pointedly ignored them.

* * *

The next winter, the weather was especially harsh. Gavroche resorted to stealing more food again, despite the ghosts' protests.

One day, Combeferre suggested that Gavroche find a more legal way to obtain resources.

"How do you suggest this, monsieur?" Gavroche asked, crossing his arms. "I have no money!" This was not entirely true, he did have a sou or two lying around, but he did not wish to waste what little coin he did have. Anyway, it would not be enough to sustain him for any length of time.

"I know a place to get some," Feuilly said. "The factory where I used to work. The labor is hard but not as bad as many and the pay is decent."

Gavroche frowned. That was very unappealing to him. "Why should I change my ways?" he asked. "I have survived this long."

"Unless you want to live a life of crime forever, you will have to get a job sometime," Joly pointed out.

He did not expect a lecture from them on how thieving was no good way to live, how he could end up in jail which would be unfortunate for all of them, and how it didn't contribute positively to society, but he received one anyway. Eventually, just to stop them from pestering him, he agreed.

Much to his dismay, he was quickly accepted into factory life. It was too far from his elephant for him to continue living there. Instead, he rented a nearby apartment.

"I'm almost respectable now," Gavroche often said.

From then on, life was very different. He spent most of his day working. It wasn't as boring as he feared, as the ghosts, who were not occupied by doing tasks, kept him as entertained as they could with conversation, but it was still very dull and exhausting. The only interesting thing he did was the poems.

Jehan, the poet, was still often struck by inspiration even after his death. He demanded that Gavroche write down some of the best ones on scraps of loose paper, so as not to lose them. Over time, they had accumulated and Gavroche even wrote a few of his own. Since he was being an upright citizen now and doing things lawfully, he figured he could make some extra money off of these. And though it was not all that much, he did.

One day, when he was walking home from a place that published the poems, he came across a familiar face. Gavroche did not recognize him at first, as the man was a few years older than the last time he had seen him. Then it came to him in a flash.

"Montparnasse!"

The man in question turned around at the sound of his name. He quickly spotted Gavroche.

"Who is that?" Bahorel asked, looking a little suspicious at the obviously shady person. Gavroche couldn't speak to him in public so he didn't answer.

Gavroche walked up to Montparnasse. "Why, it's been a long time since I've seen you about!" he exclaimed. Looking up at him, Gavroche realized that Montparnasse did not seem as tall as he once had. It was not that he had shrunk, but rather that Gavroche himself had grown a few inches in that time.

Montparnasse squinted down at him. "...Gavroche?" he said after a few moments.

"That is me," he responded. The ghosts, with nothing better to do, often observed Gavroche and his interactions with others, but this time, they seemed to be paying closer attention, standing around him as if to protect them, though they were nonexistent to the rest of the world.

"You have grown," Montparnasse observed.

"That is what happens to young people as time passes."

"You must be, what, fifteen?"

"Thereabout."

"That is old enough to join my gang, the Patron-Minette," he noted.

"Is that an offer?" Gavroche asked. Around him, his dead companions were shaking their heads, and urging him not to. They quieted when Montparnasse spoke:

"I suppose, yes. You have helped us out a couple of times when you were younger. With my recommendation and your skill, you could easily have a high position."

Gavroche hesitated. The offer sounded good, with less toil than his current job. But Joly had had a point. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life like his family. His parents turned out terrible and he wanted nothing to do with them. His mother had died in jail, from what he had heard, which did not appeal to Gavroche at all. His sisters, better people by far than the adults, had found nothing but misery by that sort of life. During one of their encounters, Éponine had told him that she would have taken any other option and hoped that someday both of them could escape their dreadful circumstances. In a way, she had when she died, and now he was on his way to doing the same, though through a far better method. Besides, living in a way that his constant companions so strongly disapproved of would result in suffering for all of them.

"I'm afraid I must refuse you," Gavroche finally said, to the obvious relief of the ghosts. Working in the factory, with a little money from his and Jehan's poetry on the side, was rough work, but it was better than a life of crime.

Montparnasse, though obviously disappointed, only shrugged. "It's a shame," he said. "Though I suppose your life must be your own." He tipped his hat and left.

* * *

Factory work was long and tedious. Even with the company of the ghosts, he often found it unbearably boring. His only break was for lunch at about midday. During that time, he usually kept to himself. Occasionally, he might joke with a few of the people closer to his age or trade complaints about the foreman, but after so much time spent with only dead revolutionaries, other people did not seem as interesting.

During the break of a particularly grueling day of work, he sat back and relaxed before pulling out his packed lunch. "Ahh, my hands," he complained. They were sore after hours of labor.

The ghosts looked at him, unimpressed. They were not the ones working, and had only so much sympathy after years of this. Only Feuilly flashed him an apologetic look.

"Is this truly worth the measly coin I earn?" he demanded, glaring up at his ghostly companions. "Stealing was much easier, and it felt more rewarding."

Enjolras snorted. Combeferre shook his head, about to launch into another rant about the societal detriments of thievery. It was a subject they often discussed whenever Gavroche was feeling especially pessimistic. But before he could speak, he was interrupted.

"Who are you talking to?" asked a girl.

"Only myself. It is the sole person who will listen to everything I say." Gavroche scowled at her. He wished she would go away. He thought he heard a few of the ghosts snicker at his irony.

She laughed. She seemed to think his comment a quip instead of an annoyed comment.

"Look at this one," Courfeyrac said in amusement. "I think she might like you, Gavroche."

Gavroche resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How ridiculous! She had barely said two words to him!

"She's pretty, too," Bahorel added. As if that mattered! Besides, she didn't seem all that pretty to him. She was about his age, but she wore filthy clothes didn't seem all that happy. She was just another girl.

"What is your name?" the girl asked him, raising an eyebrow.

"Gavroche," he told her grumpily.

"You ought to flirt with her," Courfeyrac suggested, grinning. "Have some fun!"

Gavroche sighed, letting the girl see it too. He was very uninterested in whatever Courfeyrac's definition of "fun" would be.

"We could help you say the right things," Grantaire offered. "As you do not have much experience and we do."

"Grantaire is not the one you want helping you," Joly muttered, "but the offers stands."

"I am Liliane," she said, smiling at him.

"She's _smiling_ , that means she likes you," Jehan said enthusiastically. "Oh, we could write a poem about this!"

Enjolras looked at the other ghosts and shook his head. "This is so pointless," he muttered under his breath. Gavroche couldn't help but agree.

Gavroche grunted at Liliane. "That's nice," he said unenthusiastically. For once, he wished that the foreman would burst into the room and proclaim that the break was over, if only it would get him away from this girl. It wasn't the girl who was so terrible, he supposed, but the ghosts' comments about her.

Liliane pouted. "You don't like me," she accused him.

"Gavroche, be a gentleman and apologize to the lady," Courfeyrac commanded.

"Don't listen to him," Enjolras said tiredly.

"I don't even know you!" Gavroche said to the girl.

"You could if you wanted," she said flirtatiously.

"See, I _told_ you she liked you," Courfeyrac said smugly, crossing his arms.

Gavroche was fed up with this conversation. At last, he said irritably, "Thank you, Liliane, but I am uninterested in your proposition."

"Gavroche," Bahorel protested.

"You've ruined it now," Bossuet proclaimed. He shrugged and reached over to ruffle Gavroche's hair. Since he was a ghost and his hand entirely insubstantial, Gavroche only felt a faint coolness on his scalp, but it was the thought that counted.

Liliane looked at him and wrinkled her nose. "I guess the others were right," she huffed, turning away from him. "You're just a ratty little boy like all the others." She tromped away from him.

Gavroche only shook his head. "What did I tell you?" he said to the ghosts, quieter than before so somebody else wouldn't overhear. "She didn't like me after all."

"You didn't tell us anything," Combeferre pointed out.

"It was implied," Gavroche protested. "It's not like I could start talking to you in front of her."

"She might have liked you if you hadn't been so rude and scared her off," Courfeyrac said.

"You can't keep making me try to do things!" Gavroche hissed. "I'm my own person, not you. You are dead, but that doesn't mean you can live through me. I don't want to flirt with girls so don't try to make me just because that's what you would have done if you were me. You're not me."

"He has a point," Combeferre said after a moment's pause. "We've been pretty controlling, first with the job, and now with all of you encouraging him to do something he was uncomfortable with. Though we are tied to him, it's his life. Our time is past."

"I don't mind advice," Gavroche said. "I don't mind your conversation or listening to your opinions. But don't force me into taking it."

"That sounds fair," Feuilly murmured, and the others voiced their agreement.

* * *

All the essential food, toiletries, and other things necessary to living could easily be found at a couple of stores a few minutes away from where Gavroche lived. On occasion, when he had some extra money or he was on a holiday, he went to eat somewhere different. Once, when he was crossing the city to eat at a small place that Grantaire had recommended, he passed through a market. It was nothing special, so Gavroche hadn't paid the wares much attention, focusing instead on getting around people. Now that he was almost an adult, it was harder to dart around people's legs but easier to be noticed enough that people would move out of the way on their own.

The ghosts loved going to the market. It was less cramped and far more interesting than his lodgings or the factory. Joly and Bossuet loved to make faces and dance around the market-goers, and Grantaire often joined in, too. Feuilly loved admiring the wares of various shops, and he always complained that now that they were ghosts, he'd never be able to own anything else. Of all the ghosts, though, he was most conscious of a worker's tight budget and made no attempt to pressure Gavroche into buying anything—unlike Bahorel, who loudly complained that while he was dead, he could still smell the food and if he couldn't eat anything, Gavroche ought to do it for him.

Gavroche had been trying to decide if it was worth his money to buy a freshly baked pie (it smelled so good, but it cost so much) when he heard Bossuet say, "Joly? Is that...?"

Joly turned to where Bossuet was looking and gasped. "It is! Musichetta!"

"Who?" Gavroche said aloud, startled. He whirled around as the two men frantically rushed away, only to be frustrated by the seemingly magnetic pull the ghosts had to Gavroche.

"She was their mistress before we died," Bahorel explained.

"Which one's mistress?" Gavroche asked. Bahorel only shrugged.

"It's been years since they've seen her," Combeferre explained, looking toward them with sympathy.

"It's not as if she'll be able to see them," he pointed out.

Around him, passers-by stared at him in confusion as he talked to seemingly thin air. Gavroche only shook his head and watched as Joly and Bossuet turned back to look at him helplessly.

"Gavroche, will you please go to her?" Bossuet pleaded.

"And do what?" he asked, though he moved to a stall in the direction Bossuet and Joly were trying to go.

"She's over there!" Joly exclaimed, pointing to a woman with long brown hair. Gavroche raised an eyebrow. For a moment he was surprised that either of these young men (or perhaps both of them) could ever have been in a relationship with a woman who appeared to be that old, but then he realized that she must have aged since their death.

Gavroche worked his way through the crowd of people, the ghosts floating effortlessly alongside him. Joly and Bossuet embraced each other, more emotional than Gavroche could ever remember seeing them. He wondered if the other ghosts had family left behind that they had never seen again. He had never asked, and they had never volunteered the information.

He made his way up to Musichetta, who walked briskly through the marketplace. He trotted up behind her, finally calling out, "Madam! Madam, excuse me!" He had not been prone to manners before had met the ghosts, but Combeferre and Jehan had drilled politeness into him.

She turned around and gazed at him in confusion. She was a tall woman, and towered over Gavroche despite his recent growth spurts. (He was now taller than both Jehan and Courfeyrac, but he doubted he would ever reach the heights of the colossal Bahorel or long-legged Combeferre.)

"Chetta," Bossuet said, his voice breaking. He reached out to touch her, but his insubstantial,

ghostly hand only fell through her face. Joly had tears in his eyes.

Musichetta shivered. Gavroche knew from experience she was experiencing the strange sensation of being touched by a ghost, even if she was not aware of it. "Yes, boy?" she asked him.

"Um..." Gavroche glanced up at Bossuet and Joly. He wasn't sure what to say to her now that he'd caught up to her.

"Tell her that she's beautiful," Joly said softly. The other ghosts hung back quietly.

"Um, uh," he stammered. Musichetta looked down at him in confusion. "Uh, are you Musichetta?"

She blinked at him. "Yes," she said, smiling slightly. "That is my name."

"I just wanted to say, you're beautiful," he blurted out. He supposed she was, though he would not have taken a second glance at her in a crowd of strangers if it had not been for Bossuet and Joly.

Startled, Musichetta burst into a musical laugh. Bossuet and Joly looked at her fondly.

"Thank you," she said, amused and a little confused. "Do you know me?"

"In a manner of speaking," he quipped.

"I'm sure there's an explanation for that," she said.

Gavroche shrugged. There wasn't one—at least not one she would believe. "I know some old acquaintances of yours, Madam," he said evasively. "I am simply passing along a message from them. They did not lie; you are indeed beautiful."

"Who are they?" she asked.

"I wish you could tell her," Joly sighed.

 _And why not?_ he thought, glancing at him and Bossuet. "Why, they are Bossuet and Joly. They send their love and their deepest condolences for your loss." The loss may have been years ago, but Gavroche thought it prudent to apologize for any fresh grief this revelation brought to her.

Musichetta laughed again, but it was more forced this time. "Silly boy, they died years ago."

Gavroche only shrugged. "I was there, the day they died. At the barricades." It was true.

"But you must have been so young!"

"And all the more enthusiastic for it."

"Did they—do you know how they died?" she asked hesitantly.

He didn't remember, but Bossuet supplied, "We were fighting close to each other. The National Guardsmen shot us, but we were killed so soon after the other that we don't know who died first."

"They were shot fighting beside each other," Gavroche said. "They loved you, you know."

"We still do," Bossuet whispered.

Musichetta was distraught, tears budding in her own eyes. "Thank you, boy," she said, grasping his hand. "It has been so many years...I miss them."

"They miss you, too," he told her, squeezing her hand.

She laughed a little. "They are gone. They cannot miss me anymore, for which I am grateful. If they missed me half as much as I miss them, it would be too much for us all to bear."

Beside him, Joly turned away from Musichetta and began to weep openly in Bossuet's arms. The bald ghost patted him on the back comfortingly, crying ghostly tears of his own. Gavroche felt suddenly unbearably sad, affected by the emotions of his friends.

Musichetta took her hand back, sighing. "I do not know what caused you to enter my life on this day, little boy, but I am grateful." She leaned down and kissed him on the head. Gavroche blushed.

"You are welcome," he said, leaning away from her.

She smiled sadly, then turned away, walking back into the crowd of people in the marketplace.

"Thank you," Bossuet said in a hoarse voice. Joly echoed his words in a soft mumble, his face still buried in Bossuet's chest.

"You are welcome," Gavroche repeated. The other ghosts crowded around him and their two crying companions, giving as much comfort as they could. Each of them had lost something in the revolution, not least of which their life. As Gavroche looked around at the ghosts, he was suddenly glad that he had not lost something in the revolution, but instead gained a new self, new friends, and a new life.

* * *

" _At the Chamber of Deputies not once was the word "Republic" uttered in any of the speeches of the orators, not even in that of Ledru-Rollin. But now, outside, in the street, the elect of the people heard these words, this shout, everywhere. It flew from mouth to mouth and filled the air of Paris."_

—Victor Hugo, 1848

* * *

Years passed. Gavroche grew from a boy to a young man. He grew even taller, though four of the nine ghosts still remained taller than him. (He passed up not only Jehan and Courfeyrac, but also Feuilly, Joly, and Enjolras. He was less than an inch shorter than Grantaire, but the artist loved to gloat about being taller than him. It made Gavroche wish he could get further than twenty feet away from him, though he admitted it was a little bit funny. But only a little.)

He left the factory a month after he turned eighteen. He had worked there for far too long, and had grown utterly sick of the hard labor. Many of his coworkers had died there, including the girl Liliane who had once tried to flirt with him.

Gavroche got a contract with a publishing company and became a full-time writer. It didn't bring in much money, but it was a little more than the factory work, and far more fun. The ghosts were a constant source of inspiration to him. He began writing novels, and with the variety of social backgrounds of the ghosts, his characters could be written with personal input from many different classes.

On occasion, he also did some revolutionary writings, published in the paper _La Réforme._ While certainly influenced by his constant companions, they were his own words for his own ideals.

In the group that comprised of Gavroche and his ghosts, each person had their own opinion of politics, though they overlapped a lot. Gavroche tended to lean more socialist, and showed that in his writings, fictional and otherwise. Though many times his friends disagreed with his individual points, each with different things for different reasons, they respected his right as a living person to publish his own views.

As he grew older, Gavroche slowly became more entrenched in revolutionary politics. The ghosts encouraged him every step of the way. He wrote increasingly angrier letters and essays for the newspapers, he talked with other discontented people: factory workers, other revolutionaries, farmers out of work due to bad weather. He went to their gatherings and listened to their issues and proposed solutions. He learned and he spoke and he planned.

At one such meeting, he spoke with a pair of working class brothers. Their names were Henri, the elder brother, and Perron. They seemed familiar, but it wasn't until after they mentioned their life on the streets that Gavroche realized who they were.

"When I was young, we were both lost and left to the streets when our mother was arrested," Henri said. "That's when I learned both the best and worst of humanity. It made me both angry and dissatisfied with society and hopeful for the future. That's why I'm here now. The generosity of an orphan boy and the uncaring cruelty of the masses."

"The generosity of..." Gavroche muttered, feeling a couple pieces of memory suddenly click together. "I remember you! You were the children I took in for a night! I'm Gavroche!"

The brothers looked at each other, surprised, then at him.

"...You lived in the elephant with the rats," Perron said.

Henri just gaped at him for a few moments. "I owe so much to you," he began.

"It was nothing big, my long lost children," Gavroche said. "I lent you some extra space in my lodgings. It was no hardship on my part."

"You took care of these children when you were just a child?" Joly asked, peering at them in interest.

"But you must have been so young yourself, if it was before we died!" Jehan exclaimed.

Gavroche wished he could talk to them freely, but he was a grown man now. Perhaps he could have gotten away with talking to them in front of a group when he was a child, but no longer. He could not answer them in front of Henri and Perron.

"But how have you fared in all these years since we have been separated?" Gavroche asked the two boys who were no longer lost, nor even boys any longer.

"We lived on the streets," Perron said.

"We had each other," Henri explained. "And we remembered all you taught us. And you, Gavroche?"

"Oh, I was fine on my own," he said breezily. It was meant to insult the ghosts, and by Combeferre's snort and Bahorel's indignant squawk of protest, he knew he had.

"You would still _be_ on the streets were it not for us," Enjolras reminded him.

Grantaire swatted his head. If his hand had been at all substantial, it would have hurt. "Pay respect to your elders," he teased. Gavroche looked away from Henri and Perron briefly to give him an amused glance. He was twenty-seven now, older than most of them had been when they died.

"What happened to you, anyway?" Gavroche asked. "You didn't come back the next day."

"We got lost," Henri said.

"But now we found you again," Perron said, grinning at him.

"He looks a lot like you when he smiles," Feuilly remarked.

"He does!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "Perhaps you are related."

Gavroche was so surprised at that leap of logic that he snorted. Perron and Henri looked at him oddly.

"Sorry," he apologized to them. "But yes, we have found each other again! How wonderful."

"We found out our real parents too, awhile back," Henri said.

"You didn't know them before?" Gavroche couldn't remember the details of their time together, but he remembered getting the impression that they had lived with their parents.

"We thought the woman who raised us was our mother," Henri explained, "but we ran into some gang members once and learned that our parents gave us to her so she could get some money from this man, Gillenormand."

"He said we were the sons of a M. Thénardier," Perron added.

"How strange!" Gavroche exclaimed. The ghosts leaned in attentively. "That is the man that fathered me as well, though he was no more a parent to me than he was you."

"What did I say!" Courfeyrac folded his arms proudly.

"That is an unbelievable coincidence!" Henri said.

"It must be fate," Jehan proclaimed.

Perron smiled, his eyes filling with unshed tears. "Brother," he said firmly, grasping Gavroche's arm.

Gavroche was shocked by this turn of events. He had never expected to meet these boys ever again, and never did he imagine they would turn out to be his brothers! After the revolutionary meeting was over that night, he and his brothers went together for a night of drinking and catching up. It soon became a habit, and they met each week.

* * *

That January, in the year of 1848, a banquet, one of the meetings for liberalists, was broken up and groups of people over six meeting without official permission became outlawed.

"Something's going to happen," Henri said. "Tensions have been building up for that past couple of years. What they just did is going to spark great deal of anger. They've started limiting our rights to speech and discussion, which has for so long been the main consolation of the lower classes for not having the right to vote. And that's on top of a couple years of bad harvest, which make the farmers angry, and British workers getting more and more rights, which have the factory workers frustrated that they aren't getting the same."

"Their anger has to be released somehow," Perron added quietly.

"Whatever happens, it's not going to be peaceful," Gavroche said.

"History repeats itself," Feuilly murmured.

Enjolras nodded firmly, a light shining in his eyes. He made eye contact with Gavroche and said, "We will be with you every step of the way."

"Let's hope you don't end up like us, huh?" Bossuet joked.

Gavroche nodded, both to his brothers and to the ghosts. He had told Henri and Perron of his previous experiences in revolution, both in 1830 and 1832, and they were both highly impressed.

Enjolras and the other ghosts had planned for the rebellion of 1832. This time, Gavroche was a mouthpiece for their insights. He gave not only his own ideas, but the ideas of the ghosts'. He went over their mistakes, and discussed possible solutions. This revolution would not end the same way the revolution of 1832 had.

The main enemies of the revolution were the "citizen king" Louis Philippe and his prime minister and advisor, François Guizot. Guizot had been the one to outlaw the banquets, and the hearts of the people were especially turned against him.

On the 22nd of February, only a week after the banquets had been outlawed, the people revolted, Gavroche and his brothers with them. The crowds rioted, building barricades, fighting Guardsmen, and setting fires. They cried out, "Down with Guizot! Long live the revolution!"

The ghosts danced around Gavroche, flying through him and the revolutionaries around him. With them, it was as if Gavroche had nine extra pairs of eyes. They watched his surroundings, telling him when to duck or move out of the way. When the barricade was built, they could go beyond it to some extent and give him information about the movements of the soldiers.

"Long live the revolution!" Enjolras shouted, his face flushed red. He was echoed not only by those fighting in the streets, but by the other ghosts, and Gavroche as well.

"Down with Guizot!" hollered Perron, louder than Gavroche had ever heard him before.

"Down with the king!" Henri shouted, waving a red flag. At Enjolras's insistence, Gavroche took the flag from him and shoved it into the top of the barricade.

The fighting lasted all day and into the night. It was chaotic and frightening but also exhilarating. Now was the time for change, change that his ghostly companions had failed to bring about their first try. Gavroche knew that in a way, they felt that this was their second chance with which to redeem themselves. Their excitement and hope spread to him, and so he fought with as energy as his last barricade, despite the decades that had passed since.

The next day, the afternoon of the 23rd, a young street boy came from another barricade with some news.

"The Prime Minister's resigned! We brought down Guizot!"

Cheering erupted. Gavroche looked at his brothers, both thankfully still alive, and at his dead friends, sharing the moment of elated victory. His brothers threw their arms around each other sandwiched him in between, laughing and crying.

"There's more fighting in front of the palace!" the boy shouted once the rebels quieted down. "They're driving out the king!"

All those who could still walk left for the palace. Their pace was slower than on the way to the first barricades, after a night of fighting, but no less enthusiastic. With that taste of victory, they were hungry for more.

There were rioters at the palace, demanding the king to leave. Nearby buildings had caught on fire and more barricades had been built. The National Guardsmen shot into the crowd, and Gavroche's blood boiled with anger, remembering how they had once shot at him so long ago, nearly causing his death.

A revolutionary raced up to Gavroche. He vaguely recognized the man, having met him at one of the banquets.

"Monsieur Gavroche!" the man exclaimed through gasps. "My God, it's good to see you are still alive!"

"I say the same to you," Gavroche replied. He wished he remembered the man's name, but there was no time to ask him. "What's going on?"

"The National Guard fired into the crowd," the man spat angrily. "Brutes! Some say the original shot was an accident, but whatever happened, it's chaos now."

Gavroche scowled. Beside him, Henri asked the man, "Has the king responded to the riots?"

"He dismissed Guizot, didn't you hear?" the man said.

"I thought he resigned," Perron said, frowning.

"Yes, that's what I heard, too," Joly remarked.

"Well, he's not in office anymore," Gavroche said. "Besides that. Has he stepped down? Offered a compromise?"

"Nothing yet, not that I've heard," the man said. He shrugged. "But we're sure going to try and make him." He grinned fiercely.

"Thanks—uh—" Gavroche fumbled, struggling to recall the man's name.

"He's called Jean," Combeferre supplied.

"Thanks, Jean," Gavroche said.

Jean laughed. "You're welcome, Gavroche." He turned and ran back into the throng, shouting, "Long live the revolution! Down with Louis Philippe!"

The fighting went into the next day. On the 24th, the news arrived: Louis Philippe, the tyrant, had abdicated.

At first, Gavroche was so stunned that the revolution had, at last, succeeded that he only stared, tears streaming down his face. His brothers, jubilant, rushed toward him and embraced him. He hugged them back, and he felt the chill of the ghosts as they pressed in around the three brothers.

* * *

Louis Philippe had abdicated, but the fight for freedom was not yet over. He vested his powers as king into his grandson and the boy's mother as regent. The Chamber of Deputies was on the verge of approving the change in leadership until a group of revolutionaries burst into the room.

The revolutionaries were not just students and workers, but also National Guardsmen who had switched sides. Gavroche, Perron, and Henri were among the group to storm the parliamentary chamber. The Chamber of Deputies agreed to negotiate; Gavroche was not among the revolution's leaders, but he was privileged to witness as the leaders spoke to them. The ghosts whirled around him, shouting and rejoicing in the glory of the revolution.

Change had come to France at last. A Second Republic was declared, abolishing monarchy and instituting national workshops to spur the economy. Political prisoners were released.

The ghosts were overjoyed. Gavroche was, too, especially since he and his brothers had all survived.

France was a republic. The king was dethroned. Gavroche was alive: wonderfully, joyously, alive. And even though his ghostly friends had died all those years ago, they were still with him, still able to witness the real changes that had come to the nation they loved. The spirit of Revolution continued, carried both by the living and the dead, and Gavroche had never been more proud to hold the tricolor flag of his country.

* * *

" _In the name of the French people, monarchy, under every form, is abolished without possibility of return."_

—the Provisional Government of France, 1848

**Author's Note:**

> There is more to the story of France, of course, and even the Revolution of 1848 didn't turn out as happily as it seemed it would be, but this is where our story ends. Thanks for reading! Comments are always welcomed :)


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